by Kathryn Temple
Where there was smoke, there was fire,
and fire towers, guardians of the forests,
I do not regret how much I wanted you,
Wesser, Wajah, Cammerer, Pisgah, so
climbed to the top of steel stairs,
stood in the wind mesmerized,
believed I could sense Magnolias,
Black Cherry from miles away.
I called on your creatures! Moles and mice,
the gentle porcupine, a black bear, copperheads,
rattlers, raccoons, the wild boar had cubs,
how they tumbled, young and free.
I insisted on belonging, never knew my place,
ranged from city to city, restless, yet
returned again and again, counting
each day, clinging until torn away.
Now I think of wildflowers: the painted Trillium,
Pink Slippers, Mayapples like umbrellas, your azaleas
so abundant, Blood Root so bloodless, the Jacks in
their Pulpits, all gathered under the trees, beautiful
in brevity for flowers know impermanence, the longing
that lives in the DNA of seeds and sprouts, their winter sleep
like death if death could yearn for spring, like me
they regret August, fear November, all they want is time,
to live long on the mountain like trees, winter and summer,
like hardwoods, Hickory, Maple, White Oak, Ash, fire towers.
How we envy what remains!
Kathryn D. Temple teaches and writes at Georgetown University. Her poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction have appeared or will soon appear in Streetlight, Metaworker, The Examined Life, Delmarva Review, and 3Elements, among others. A finalist for the Lori White Nonfiction Fellowship, she has also published two academic books on law & emotions and many essays in academic journals. Find her on the Chesapeake Bay where she is at work on her third academic book or at https://georgetown.academia.edu/KathrynTemple and https://medium.com/@templek
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